Gone
by shakeitsalome
Summary: Nothing has changed, but everything has. One-shot.


**Gone**

* * *

Everything looked the same.

The sky was its usual pure cornflower blue, dotted with the occasional wisp of a cloud. The trees still swayed in the breeze. The water still sparkled in the sun. The fat ducks still waddled to and fro, begging for crumbs. Kid still darted madly across the playground, their moms still darted after them.

He walked, certain in the knowledge that he looked the same as well. The sun was still warm on his shoulders. There was that ever-present aroma of asphalt and sunscreen in the air. He could still hear the traffic beyond the copse of trees. A fire siren began to blare, followed by an ambulance.

Everything was the same. Except, it wasn't.

 _"I just… It's not working."_

The 'it' that wasn't working turned out to be them. They were no longer a living, breathing, cohesive unit. They were now 'it' and 'it' no longer worked. Had it ever? He'd thought so. Things had been going so well. Hadn't they?

He kicked a pebble in his path. He'd thought they'd been going well. But perhaps he'd been blind. The pebble skittered ahead and he adjusted his stride so he could kick it again, sighing when it flew into the grass.

He had become so invested in her. In them. Hadn't he gotten a bigger place? Hadn't they excitedly gone from room to room, brimming with plans? Hadn't she helped him move in and arrange everything? Hadn't she hung the first picture? The picture of them. An old one, yes, but his favorite. The one of them on the beach, with the wind blowing her hair everywhere and him not looking at the camera.

 _"We're going in different directions, Finn."_

Funny, how he'd thought they were going in the same direction. Little by little, her things had appeared in his apartment. A hair clip first, then a toothbrush. A jacket here, a pair of jeans there. A tube of lip gloss in the kitchen, a jar of face cream next to the bed. He had cleared first one drawer then another for more of her things, had even let her take over the spare bedroom's closet.

They had talked about the future. Quite a bit, in fact. They would sit at the table in the bigger kitchen in the bigger apartment, discussing her moving in and sharing responsibilities around the house. They had talked marriage. Kids. Whether or not to live in the city or the suburbs.

He'd wanted two or three. He'd wanted to hear the stampede of little feet when he got home. And he'd wanted to live in that gray area that wasn't quite the suburbs but wasn't quite the city, either. He'd wanted their children to have a yard to play in.

And a dog. Their home in not-quite-the-suburbs would have needed some big, clumsy mutt that would be protective of the kids and loved by the entire family.

 _"My career is really taking off now. I have to make the right choices."_

When they had met, it had just been her job. Just something to pay the bills and have a little extra to blow on the occasional luxury. Then the chance of a big promotion had come along. He'd supported her, because wasn't that what a good boyfriend was supposed to do? He'd kept a copy of her night class textbook in his suitcase, and he'd quizzed her over the phone when he was out of town. He'd kept her cup full of hot tea while she studied. He'd sent a massive amount of flowers when she'd aced the final, and even more when she'd gotten the promotion.

After that, it was no longer just her job. With it came new responsibilities. And a new look. First her hair; she'd had it cut to her chin and dyed blonde. She'd started wearing more makeup than he'd ever thought possible. He hadn't complained. Had he? She had. About the uncomfortable shoes and the need for Spanx – whatever they were – and how her new office had only one little window.

There had been dinner parties. To him they weren't parties at all, more a group of people with bored masks standing around drinking expensive wine and picking at expensive food. And always the initial look of disdain when he told them he wrestled for a living. Followed by the pat comments on how it must be a grueling way to earn a living. And, after a stifled silence, her assurance that he was skilled at what he did. That she was proud of what he'd accomplished.

Strange, he thought now, how she was always too busy to come to a show. Stopping next to his car, he pinched the bridge of his nose. No, she came to shows. Maybe the amount of shows she attended had dwindled over time, but she had come. She had missed the one he'd wanted her to see the most, though. The one in his hometown. But she hadn't been able to get off work. They would go together, later. She would meet his family and see where he'd grown up and understand what he'd come from.

 _"I'll never stop loving you."_

Everything looked different.

There were blank spots all around the apartment. Their picture was the first thing he noticed. It was gone. As was her coffee cup. Her umbrella. Her jacket. Everything of hers had vanished.

He could still smell her, though. Her scent hung in the air, as though she'd just walked out moments before. Her pillow on their bed still held the indentation of her head.

He sat down, exhaling as he caught the aroma of her again. It was stronger here, in this spot where she always put on her lotion and sprayed her perfume. Lying back over the unmade sheets, he stared up at the ceiling. He'd stared at it so many times since moving in, when he couldn't sleep and she was reading next to him. He had planned while staring up. He'd planned his days off. He'd planned his future. He'd planned his entire life.

His plans had involved her for so long that now he had no clue how he could plan without her.

Even though it was all gone, there were remnants of her in each room. She had been the one to suggest the curtains in the spare room. She had bought the towel that hung on the bathroom wall. She had made the framed chalkboard for the kitchen, and her writing was still on it. _Coffee. Bread. Ice cream._

Their life together, now reduced to three items on a grocery list.

 _"I'll never stop loving you."_

The chalkboard was gone. One minute it had been hanging on the wall, mocking him with her loopy writing in blue chalk, and the next it had been on the floor. The frame had cracked. He'd stared at it for a long time, then he'd taken it down to the dumpster behind the building.

His palm was still blue from where he'd swiped away the words. He held it beneath the kitchen tap, watched it swirl around the drain before disappearing.

He wasn't befuddled anymore. He was mad. At her, for letting him think for so long that things had been perfect. At himself, for being so self-involved that he hadn't been able to see the cracks. At her, for admitting she had made up her mind to leave him months ago.

At himself, for not being good enough for her.

At her again. Just because.

He went from room to room. To check. And double-check. If she was gone, he wanted no reminders of her sticking around. The spare room's curtains came down. The towel was snatched off its hook. The sheets were stripped from the bed. Half-crazed, he threw the lot of it into the spare room and closed the door.

But he couldn't get away from her. The walls held memories. They'd danced in the middle of the living room that first night after he'd signed the lease, when the only furniture in the whole place had been his old bed and a chair. They'd cooked together in the kitchen, teasing and laughing and making a mess. They'd painted the hallway, somehow managing to not make a mess. They'd read together in the bedroom, comfortable with each other and with the silence. They'd made love in the bathroom, where he'd learned the deliciousness of a soft body next to hard tile.

 _"I wish you the best."_

He pictured her, in her designer dress and expensive heels. Her dyed hair sleek in the sunshine. Her makeup perfect. Her hands clutching her purse in her lap while she sat on the bench in the park. Giving her well-rehearsed speech without the first hint of emotion.

He remembered his numbness. He'd only asked a few questions. Any others he might have had, she'd already answered.

No, it wasn't him. He was wonderful. Almost perfect, really. The epitome of a dream boyfriend.

Then why had she left? He asked the question now, when it was too late to get an answer. If he was so fucking wonderful, so close to perfect, such a goddamn dream, how could she let go?

She hadn't even looked at him. Had stared out at the water. And, when he hadn't thought of anything else to say, she had risen to her feet. She would get her stuff. See you around and all that.

Yes, I've just torn your life apart but oh well. Take care.

Take care.

Leaning against the outside of his door, because it was the only place that didn't immediately remind him of her, he sank down to the floor. He leaned his head back, remembering how easily she had walked away from him. How she hadn't looked over her shoulder.

How she hadn't seemed to notice that she had taken half his soul with her.

 _"Take care of yourself, Finn."_


End file.
